


Samaritan

by renwhit



Series: Road to Damascus [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: But would Tim be Tim without a casual fling here and there?, Cane user Jon, Canonical Character Death, End!Tim, Ghost!Tim, If Gerry is Jon's Explanation Man then Oliver is Tim's, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Canonical Character Undeath, Other, Vague with a tasteful fade to black of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23036008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwhit/pseuds/renwhit
Summary: “And all this doesn’t bother you?”“All what?”“All the predetermination shit.” No crossroads. No options. No agency. “When’s the last time you made an actual choice, rather than just letting fate, or the Web, orwhateverjust sweep you along?”With a strange half-smile, Oliver glanced over to him. “When’s the last timeyoudid?”Or, in which Tim makes both a friend and a promise.
Relationships: Background Basira Hussain & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Background Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Tim Stoker & Oliver Banks
Series: Road to Damascus [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594225
Comments: 102
Kudos: 474
Collections: GerryTitan verse





	Samaritan

**Author's Note:**

> just like interred, don't let the length of this one fool you -- it's time you all (and tim) got some ANSWERS! not many! but SOME!
> 
> suggested listening: the confession by autoheart

When Tim realized he was walking past Arlington Square Garden, the tiny park where he first felt the End’s pull, he almost laughed. He couldn’t help but remember the panic he felt back then, so surprised and startled by something as mundane as a young girl’s asthma attack. Keeping her alive had been as simple as letting her fathers know where she was. Easy. Painless. 

G-d, if only that past version of him knew. 

No point in thinking about it. It may as well have been yesterday with how little time had passed between then and now — a few months, what was that in the grand scheme? — and no doubt that the version of him a few months from now would look back at this current moment and see someone unprepared and blind to whatever awful new reality he found himself in.

He didn’t used to be this much of a pessimist. Probably. 

It wasn’t long until he fell into step alongside Regents Canal. The alleged warmth of the day meant plenty of others followed the same path — on bikes; with dogs; headphones in and ignoring the world. Not a bustling crowd by any means, but lively.

As usual, they gave Tim a wider berth than anyone else. For a while he made a game of stepping a little closer towards those he passed and watching what sort of unconscious hoops they jumped through to keep that same distance. None of them realized they did it, or only showed some mild confusion that vanished again before long. 

It was a game until it devolved into thoughts of how othered he was now. After that, it was just depressing. 

As he crossed Whitmore Bridge for no reason other than that it was there and he could, someone else's path came level with him. It wasn’t the first time — when people barely registered his presence, the slight discomfort that came when matching pace with a stranger took longer to hit. Unlike those others, the man at his side showed none of that same avoidance that struck others near Tim. He walked, and his steps were silent. 

Tim glanced over at him. “You’re dead.”

The man gave a sideways smile. “So are you.”

He was a handsome guy despite the deep worry lines through his forehead and around his eyes, complexion a dark brown with patches of much paler skin scattered across his face and down his arms. A thin gold hoop sat against the side of his nose, and the small skull earrings he wore matched.

“So, is it Antonio Blake or Oliver Banks?”

“Oliver,” the man said with a slight wince. “You can probably imagine how ridiculous I felt when I realized I tried to give a fake name at a stronghold of the Beholding.” 

Tim snorted. “Yeah, made it a right pain in the ass to try and track you down. At this point, it’s probably safe to say it wasn’t an accident that I was assigned to do the follow up for your statement.”

“Never is with the spiders, is it?” 

“Guess not.”

They walked in quiet for a long minute, so Tim took the chance to study Oliver. The patch of light skin across his face was quite symmetrical — tracing the curve of his forehead and along his cheekbones, then down to circle his mouth, leaving the hollows of his cheeks and around his eyes dark. 

He couldn’t help his question. The symmetry wasn’t perfect, no, and the edges between colors were irregular and organic, but all together it made a clear nod to one particular shape. “So, did the End pick you as an avatar because your vitiligo looks like a skull, or…?”

“It wasn’t always like this,” Oliver said with a small laugh. “Just after I died.”

“Isn’t that a little on the nose?”

“Only one of us is hiding a fatal knife injury under his shirt, you tell me.” 

Point. 

They walked. No destination. No plan. They would end up where they needed to end up if they needed to be there. 

“So what brings you here, now?” Tim asked after a while. “It’s been months since you pulled me out of the ether.” He couldn’t help the bitterness that traced his words, but it wasn’t as if he tried very hard. 

Yes, the afterlife was shit. The current unlife wasn’t much of a peach, either. Maybe it’d be different if Tim felt like he got an actual choice in any of it, but instead he just had Joe Spooky over here grabbing him by the spectral lapels to drag him back to the living world. 

Oliver regarded him out of the corner of one eye, unfazed by Tim’s tone. “You should know by now that things happen when they’re supposed to. Inevitability and all that.”

“Right.” So Oliver just coasted along on the whims of the End, then. The End or the Web — couldn’t forget the spiders, of course. Super. “No warnings about getting to watch slow painful deaths as my exciting new career because Mr. Reaper couldn’t pencil it in your schedule, then?”

“I really don’t think I would have been much help if I’d been here.” With a self-deprecating shrug, Oliver looked back ahead as they walked. “The way we live — or, um, _don’t_ live — is pretty different.”

They passed together through a flock of tourists, who gave them plenty of distance despite the conversations it broke. None of the grumbling Tim would normally expect from a somewhat-inconvenienced crowd, either. Just the living avoiding the dead.

“And all this doesn’t bother you?”

“All what?”

“All the predetermination shit.” No crossroads. No options. No agency. “When’s the last time you made an actual choice, rather than letting fate, or the Web, or _whatever_ just sweep you along?”

With a strange half-smile, Oliver glanced over to him. “When’s the last time _you_ did?”

Tim opened his mouth to retort, only to pause. The last death he stopped was… this past week, right? Or was that the week before? He didn’t remember choosing to go on a walk today, he just… did. He did because that was what he did. 

He chose to try and make a bet with Peter, for all the good it did him. 

“I could choose to tell you to piss off,” Tim said after a long, far too revealing silence.

“True,” Oliver replied easily. “Are you going to?”

“...Not when you know more about the End than I do. If you’re here anyway, might as well get some explanations.” It felt like giving ground somehow, but Tim wasn’t sure to whom. Oliver? The End itself? The Web, somehow? There was no point in dwelling, but that didn’t mean it stopped bothering him. 

Oliver ran a hand through his short locs, sending out little flashes of light where the sun caught on the small gold bands scattered through them. “I’ll try to help, but I’m no Archivist. Where d’you want to start?”

_Why am I here? Why did this happen? Why would I come back? Why was I given this choice that was never really a choice? Why did the End choose me? Why can’t I stop? Why can’t I leave? Why can’t I just fade away? Why was I given this role? Why do I subsist on the terror of the soon-to-be dead? Why couldn’t I be left to rest? Why couldn’t I be allowed to find my brother again? Why do I keep going despite everything, despite what my existence is now? Why?_

Questions Oliver could never answer, of course. Questions Tim could never voice. 

“There’s an old statement I remember about a guy cheating death and all, playing some game with his own personal reaper.” Tim hadn’t read it closely then, just gave it a quick scan, but he had no trouble remembering the details now — not a coincidence, he was sure. “He said there was a whole collection of End avatars like him, all out there gambling over people’s lives. Why is that not part of what I do?”

“If it helps, I don’t do all that either.”

“...Why would that help?”

Oliver shrugged. “If you wanted to know you’re not some odd-man-out, I guess. As far as why we don’t, I think it comes down to— well, to choice.”

“What, that we wanted all this?” Of course it was choice. Of course. 

“Less _this,_ and more…” With a somewhat uncomfortable expression, Oliver trailed off, only to continue after a moment. “Those End avatars, they were seeking to cheat death. They wanted to somehow defy Terminus, and that comes with consequences. You and me, we knew what we were walking into, and we went willingly.”

Tim shook his head with a short laugh. “So suicide’s a prerequisite, then?”

“Not exactly, I don’t think. More that we knew what our fate was.”

“Sure.” Oliver could use whatever words he wanted, the outcome was the same. “So for you, it’s weird dreams and veins, for me, it’s last moments.”

Without either of them saying a word about it, they turned into another park — bigger than Arlington, with plenty more life around. A small playground buzzed with activity as groups of children clumped around different parts, swinging or running or yelling for the sheer joy of it. 

“Do you not see the veins?” Oliver asked, with a quick pause when a kid darted across the path just ahead. Likely not necessary with how the living made way for them, but Tim supposed it was habit. “You follow them when you’re pulled to a death, I just assumed you did.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Uh, no. How d’you know I follow them, though? You’ve never been there when I go— see someone.”

“How did you know I’m not alive?” Oliver countered. “Or, not _conventionally_ alive, anyway. Some things about our patron, we just… know. It’s intrinsic. Jon could probably explain all that better than me.”

There was nothing Tim could do with that but nod. He didn’t think too hard about how he knew a lot of the things he did these days; how he just _knew_ that the man on the bench nearest them was grieving a loved one, that Oliver wasn’t quite alive but wasn’t quite dead, that the afterlife he experienced was far from the only one out there, that cutting herself off from the Hunt was slowly killing Daisy. 

He just _knew._

One part of Oliver’s response wasn’t so easily accepted. “You called him Jon.”

“Hm?” 

“All these other avatars bend over backwards to call him the Archivist, drama or something.” Tim’s brows drew. “Hell, I called him that when I first got back.” Weird. That was probably part of the reason Basira had been so stony to him right when he showed up, if it was only ever spooky things with spooky plans that used it.

“Oh, the whole titles business. It’s just kind of… formal?” Oliver said with a wince. “And a little pretentious, honestly.”

That earned a short laugh. “Do you have one, then?”

“The Coroner.” 

“Jesus.”

Oliver’s face twisted like he just ate something sour. “I know, it’s terrible. I wouldn't think something so esoteric would get a name that clinical, but here we are.” 

“And I’m sure the paperwork to get that changed is real hell,” Tim replied with a growing smile. “Is it just as tedious to put in a request for my own? I’m fond of Casper, but Casanova also works.”

“No, you’ll have to fill out all that name change paperwork right along with me.” One corner of Oliver’s mouth ticked upwards as he bumped his shoulder into Tim’s. “No getting out of that.”

Tim jumped a bit at the contact, only to settle when he remembered that, yes, Oliver was connected to the End like Georgie. Touch worked. 

As surprised as he was about Oliver’s shoulder knocking gently against his own, it took a moment for his words to register in full.

“Sorry, name _change?_ As in, from Tim to whatever the hell it might be?”

“No, from your current title,” Oliver answered as if it were obvious.

“...And am I supposed to know what that is?”

“Oh! Oh, right. Sorry.” The apology sounded genuine, if stilted. “M’not very good at all this.”

Tim ignored his growing apprehension. “Scale of one to ten, how afraid should I be?”

“Well, it’s better than the Coroner.” 

“Fantastic.” Not much of a comfort, not that anything would be. Having a title cemented it. Made him a player in this game. There was no point in trying to dodge, though. He couldn’t escape his role. “So… what is it?”

“You’re the Witness.”

Tim let that roll through his head like a dropped coin, as if it were something he could decide whether it was worth reclaiming or if he could leave it there to collect grime and obsolescence. No such luck, of course. 

“The Witness.” It didn’t sit any better in his mouth.

“Much better than the Coroner,” remarked Oliver.

Tim shook his head. “Not really. It’s… passive. Like I’m just sitting around waiting for people to die. A bystander.”

“Well… Yeah.” Though he made a charitable attempt at softening it, Oliver’s answer was blunt enough to bruise. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Copper lined Tim’s mouth as his steps slowed. “Fuck off, I stop as many deaths as I damn well can. I don’t just— just _witness.”_

“Right, but you intervening isn’t your role as an avatar.” 

“So you think I should let them die, then?”

It was clear by the calm in the dark, dark brown of Oliver’s eyes that he wasn’t offput by Tim’s growing ire. “They’re going to die then or some other time, so if you want to step in when you do, why would that bother me? Terminus claims us all. If delaying some of them helps you sleep at night — well, not _sleep,_ I guess, but you get what I mean.”

With a deep, unnecessary breath, Tim pulled back. Oliver was the man who brought him into all this, yes. That didn’t make him responsible for how it worked. Plenty of real evil out there, plenty of people who actively tried to throw others into the jaws of whatever terrible eldritch nightmare they served. Oliver wasn’t one of them.

Tim ran a hand down his face, then turned back towards the road they walked. “So how’d I even get the role, anyway? You dreamt all this kind of way before _you_ died, but I just… got handed this, then?”

“That’s just the way of it sometimes, I think,” Oliver said after a brief, thoughtful pause. “Sometimes there’s an extended, long-term plan. Sometimes there’s a split second choice. Sometimes it’s just bad luck. Probably a blend of all three, more often than not.” 

“Lucky me.”

“So… did you Witness some death, before you died yourself?” 

Rather than allow out the immediate denial that jumped to his lips, Tim forced himself to think. He’d lost people before, of course he had. That was simply part of being human. He’d never _seen_ death, until… 

He always heard the calliope first, didn’t he?

Then, he didn’t intervene. He didn’t run down to the stage. He didn’t fight off any of the creatures with blood on their face and torture in their smiles. He watched. 

He Witnessed. 

Was that when he chose this existence? Was that the crossroads? 

This was his penance, then. Purgatory. Deserved, every bit of it. 

His injuries made no appearance — not the arm, not the chest, not the shrapnel shards across his back and neck; even the knife wound Oliver mentioned earlier was gone — and part of him wanted to force it. It would only be right. 

Not here, though. Not now. He needed to get whatever information he could while Oliver was here, considering there was no way to tell when the man would pop back up again. The rest of this, he’d just have to shelve it for the time being. 

Basira would be back with Jon soon — soon, maybe? soon to him, or soon to them? — from their jaunt up north; he could talk it through with her then. She would know what to make of this exciting new angle to his increasingly-awful existence. She would know if he deserved it. 

By the time his head cleared past the realization and shoved-back dread it brought, Oliver stopped next to him. They stood in the middle of the path with people passing on either side, like a stone that broke a river’s current. 

Mouth drawn to one side, Oliver’s head tilted to catch Tim’s eyes. “I suppose that’s a yes, then.” There was a strange grief to him, both deep and gentle, and one Tim was sorry to see. Oliver had been an avatar for years, far longer than Tim’s scant months, and he still didn’t have that numbness that Tim both dreaded and craved. 

He didn’t want to stop seeing deaths as painful. They were. They were, and if he stopped seeing them as such he might let even more people die than he already did. 

He didn’t want to stop recognizing that pain, but he was so, so tired of feeling this way. 

Christ, Elias was right, wasn’t he? That it was only his own pain and grief he bothered with. It shouldn’t matter how he felt, not when it wasn’t his life at risk. It wasn’t him who would lose a loved one should he fail. He had his chance at that.

“Suppose it is.” Tim’s voice was low and he ached, but he kept walking. That was what they did. That was how it worked. 

By the time Oliver spoke again, red streaks had started to claim the sky with sunset. “You could think of it as… you verifying the facts? Like a witness in a court case, maybe. You’re collecting the information and giving the whole thing some closure.”

A pause. “Did it take you this long to come up with _that?”_

“There’s not that many synonyms for witness,” Oliver replied with another bump to his shoulder. “Give me a little credit.”

“Yeah, still terrible.” Despite the rejection, Oliver’s attempt to help drew out a minute smile. Clumsy, no doubt, but the effort was strangely charming. 

The tentative joking around from before seemed impossible to find again, but damn if Tim wouldn’t try. “So, how’d you go out? Right now I’m winning the dramatics award on all that, so I should know if I have competition.”

Morbid to anyone else, but Oliver rolled with it as only another one of the End could. 

“Oh, I faked my identity, hijacked a boat, sailed it to the middle of the South Pacific, then stopped us in just the right place to be hit by a satellite that was crash-landing back to Earth.”

Silence, then Tim made a motion like he was washing his hands of the matter. “No contest then, award’s all yours.”

Oliver laughed. “Well, I know _specifically_ how you died, but not the context. You might have me beat.”

“Uh, explosion in a defunct wax museum to destroy a demonic Russian circus so they wouldn’t end the world.”

“...And you think me being on a boat is somehow more dramatic than that?”

This time, Tim was the one who knocked his shoulder into Oliver. “Alright, when I put it like that, maybe. A _falling satellite,_ though? Jesus.”

“We’ll call it a draw, yeah?” 

“Guess I can live with that. Ha, _live.”_

“You’re a poet.” 

Tim grinned at his immediate distaste. “Man of many talents. Shit, actually — that might be what edges me out in the whole drama competition.”

“What, bad puns?” Oliver ran a hand through his hair again, fingers twining around one of the gold beads. 

“You wish.”

“I really don’t.”

“Ah, playing coy,” laughed Tim. “Stoker humor is bulletproof, but nice try.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Sure. If not that, what?”

“I’m also a bit of a— quick change artist, I guess?” He really didn’t want to lose the lightness they’d somehow managed to find again, but if Oliver was offering what answers he had, he might know something. “Now that, that’s drama.”

“How do you mean?” Oliver asked with his head cocked.

“Just that, uh, sometimes those same injuries I got when I died pop up. It’s a real laugh.” Hands loosely in his pockets, Tim forced down the tension threatening to creep into his shoulders. “Happens with other deaths I— I Witness, I guess, but those were the first ones and all.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds… messy.”

“It’s not ideal, but a couple towels are usually enough. There’s still a stain where—”

“And you’re not just— just all over?” 

“I mean, I don’t really know _where_ my arm ends up,” Tim said with an uncomfortable laugh. “But otherwise, I’m not… y’know, bits.”

Confusion clear on his face, Oliver shook his head. “I saw the veins on you, Tim. They were _everywhere._ A couple others in the building had them, but you had the lion’s share.”

“Wait— _others_ had them? I’m the only one that died.” The Unknowing was _Tim’s_ death. No one else’s. It was his. “Was it anyone from the circus? Grimaldi and the lot, I mean.”

“They don’t show up the same way, no. There was you, and then two other humans.”

A weight Tim couldn’t name pressed in on his throat. “...How did those two die?”

“Um, there was one near you and one near the front of the building.” Before Oliver even continued, Tim knew exactly what he was going to say. “The one near you had them wrapped around his left arm and all through his chest. The one near the door had them all scattered up her back and the back of her neck.”

Tim couldn’t speak. What the hell did that even _mean?_

After a long beat, Oliver continued. “You can probably imagine how surprised I was when I got to Jon’s hospital room to see him still, um... together.”

“Right,” Tim agreed without thinking much about it. “But— But Jon _was_ dead. He died.”

“Not from being in the center of an exploding building, he didn’t,” Oliver countered. “No shrapnel damage, no broken bones. The worst I saw were some old scars.” 

Jon and Basira would have died.

Jon and Basira _should_ have died. 

Now Tim carried the wounds that killed them. He carried those wounds, and they hurt more than he could put into words. 

He carried them, and Jon and Basira lived.

Trying to remember the Unknowing would only ever go badly, but Tim couldn’t help but wonder — was _that_ his crossroads? His furious, grit-teeth insistence that it was _his_ death, _his,_ no one else’s, was that enough of a choice for the End?

No point in dwelling, no, but Tim was stubborn. He’d dwell as long as he damn well liked. 

The sky was purple-black void by the time Oliver spoke again. “I think all that means you can have the dramatic death award back.”

There was no fighting a sudden laugh. “I’ll wear my crown with honor,” Tim said, reaching up to pull his hair out of its bun. 

Oliver’s eyes followed the motion of his arms. “Bit unrelated, but since we’re talking about the whole avatar business — don’t be surprised if other avatars try to get you to tell them the date and time of their deaths.”

“That’s— that’s not even how my whole _thing_ works.” Putting his hair in a braid was pointless when as soon as he wasn’t thinking about it anymore it’d snap back to the previous style, but it was something to do with his hands. 

And maybe he liked how Oliver watched his fingers move through the long, black strands. Sue him.

“It’s not how mine works, either,” Oliver replied with a faint grimace. “Doesn’t stop them from asking.”

“Well, now I’m going to spend the rest of my week thinking of ominous things to tell them.” His voice dropped low. _“Beware the third Tuesday of September… at dusk…_ Or is twilight a better spooky time?”

“I’d go with midnight, probably.” 

Tim snorted. “Yeah, alright, you walking cliche.” 

“Look,” Oliver said with a shrug. “If I’m going to be some death prophet or whatever, I may as well go along with it.” He leaned back into a stretch, arms extended over his head and fingers laced. There was a patch of light skin on his hip, only just visible as his black shirt rode up the barest amount from black jeans with a black, gold-studded belt.

Tim wondered if working for the End required a goth wardrobe change. He could rock it, no doubt, but it wasn’t much his speed. 

Oliver yawned as he dropped the stretch, with a flash of gold between his teeth from the stud set into his tongue. If that was also a skull, Tim would never stop making fun of him. 

“Are you off on a job?” 

Tim took a beat to see if he felt anything. “No, nothing pulling me anywhere right now. No veins, I guess.”

It was only when he pointed over his shoulder that Tim noticed Oliver’s nails were painted a glossy black. “My flat’s two blocks that way.” 

“You serious?” Tim hooked a thumb in the belt loop of his trousers with a half-smile.

Oliver raised an eyebrow, his own mouth lifting to match. “Is that a no?”

...Oh, what the hell. It’d been a while out here, and Tim was pretty damn sure Oliver wasn’t looking for something serious. 

A step closer, another smile. “Lead the way.”

* * *

The mid-morning sun caught on the edges of cotton-grey clouds as Tim went up the Institute steps. He hadn’t taken any detours, nor had he gone at his usual slow pace. He needed to be here, now.

And, when he felt the sudden presence of Basira and Jon in the basement just as he came in the door, he didn’t waste time with surprise. 

Fate. Terminus. The Web. Whatever. 

Least they’d let him have a single night off, anyway. Oliver had insisted that he didn’t mind if Tim left while he was asleep considering Tim _couldn’t_ sleep, but Tim had never been that kind of guy. When he’d looked over to Oliver with no small amount of playful affront and said, “I might be dead, but _chivalry_ isn’t,” Oliver laughed so much they ended up staying awake another hour anyway.

Stoker humor. Bulletproof. And Oliver had doubted him. 

With how negligible a few hours felt these days, reading a book until the sun rose was no trouble — and neither was the still sleep-bleary Oliver feebly throwing a pillow at him when he declared, “The dead has risen!” right as Oliver woke.

Tim got to the basement just in time to catch one long-fingered wave goodbye and the creaking of a new, yellow door that vanished with as much non-reality as it arrived. Jon stumbled and braced a hand on the wall to regain his balance, and though his cane remained clutched in the other, it did him no favors held halfway down the length. Though Basira kept her footing and had no cane to misuse she looked little better — no surprise if they took the Spiral express home. 

Daisy reached the pair as soon as Tim did. Jon’s grey eyes were so dark they looked black, with no differentiation between iris and pupil. There were new bags under them as well, and Basira had her own to match. 

The only thing Tim could think was, _You should both be dead. You aren’t. You were supposed to die. You didn’t. Blood loss. Spinal damage. Blunt force trauma. Lacerations. Bone fractures. You should both be dead. You aren’t dead. You will not die, not here, not soon. You won’t. You should. You won’t._

When Jon stumbled again, Tim stepped forward to— to what? To stand closer, just as intangible? To hover and fret and do nothing of use? 

Before Tim could do all of the _nothing_ he was able, Daisy slipped past him to get to Jon’s side, his old spare cane set to her height. “C’mon, get in a chair before you fall ‘nd break your glasses. Give holding your cane by the handle a shot.” Her scraggly ponytail was gone, leaving only a reddish-black bumblebee fuzz. It suited her.

“Right— right, yes. I-I lost track, it’s— somewhere,” Jon mumbled. Basira watched them for a long moment before turning on her heel and walking the other direction. 

Tim glanced between her retreating back and Jon, torn. Jon was clearly a mess — day that ended in Y with that one — but Basira looked little better. 

“I’ll get him,” Daisy said when he looked to Jon again. If Jon heard them talking, he didn’t show it, too busy trying to keep his feet under him with all the grace of a man three drinks in and no plans to stop. “If I go with Basira, she— she won’t talk. And she should. So it can’t be me.” The words were matter-of-fact, but Daisy’s face carved into the sharp relief of _want._

Tim could feel her slow-fading light flicker like one wrong breath would snuff it out for good. He knew that wasn’t how it worked, of course it wasn’t, but if Basira didn’t know which sort of breath was dangerous it was no surprise she kept her words in check. It was safer. Not better, maybe, but safer. 

Someone needed to tell her that blowing on a flame could make it burn brighter just as much as it could kill it, then. 

There was no shoulder Tim could offer Jon to lean on, not like he had so long ago in the tunnels, but he had plenty of words in him. He could do that much.

By the time he caught up to Basira, she was already seated at her desk with hands pressed over her eyes. Exhausted. 

“Knock, knock?”

Basira dropped one hand to shoot him a baleful, half-hearted glare from a single eye. “What do you want?”

“Just checking in on you.” The immediate assumption that he wanted something from her wasn’t personal, he didn’t think. It was what she was used to around here. From everyone. “Meet Saint Nick up on your North Pole adventure?”

Dropping her face back into both hands, Basira sighed. “No, just a zealot from a darkness cult with a thing for the bodyhopping cult leader who used to be Edmond Halley.”

“...So no toy workshop, then.”

“Unless elves spend their time making evil versions of the sun.”

Tim snorted as he dropped into the chair across from her. “Hey, they’ve got a whole year from one Christmas to the next. There’s plenty of time for evil suns.”

Basira managed to work up a small, huffed laugh. Nothing major, but Tim would take it. 

“So, what happened?”

“Jon—” Basira cut herself off as she dragged one hand down her face, then folded both arms on top of the desk. “He did some Archivist-ing.”

“...Some what?”

Rather than elaborate, Basira shook her head. “I need to think about it. All of it.”

“D’you want to talk it through?” Tim asked as he crossed his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. “Could help you process everything.” 

She shook her head again. “I think better just in my head.”

“Is that true, or is it just what you’re used to?”

When she sent him a dark look, he raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, fine. Just thought I’d offer.” 

Bringing up Daisy now wouldn’t help anything — she was already far too tense to have a conversation like that. He’d keep it in mind for later, because come hell or high water she was going to talk about it _sometime._

Still, that was for later. 

“So, did you blow up the evil sun thing, or…?”

“Jon looked at it. Seemed to work.”

“Fun.”

Basira leaned to the side to rest her chin in one palm. “There was only one person there keeping watch over the thing, too. They tried a ritual with it already, and it failed.” 

“It did?” Tim's brows furrowed. “How?”

“No idea. Probably something Gertrude did somewhere else, but there’s no way to know. It failed, and Rayner died not long later. Apparently the rest of the People’s Church is scattered around.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“I don’t think so.” Basira’s fingers drummed against her jaw. “Just means that they could be anywhere, at any time. If they find out that we took their precious dark sun or whatever, and know we’re here, they might try to take a swing back at us.”

Tim sat forward in his chair. “Would they? I mean, the whole ritual already failed ages ago if it’s Gertrude who took it out. You guys wrecked the whole sun thing, yeah, but they already lost a long time ago.”

“Right, but if they feel like they lost everything, and then have the same thing strike them again, that could make a good catalyst for some revenge for it all even though they didn’t gun for that revenge before.” Her head slid down her hand until it held her forehead rather than her chin. “They’ll probably go for Jon in particular, but I can’t imagine they’ll try too hard to keep collateral down considering the number of people they drowned in their ritual attempt.”

“So we might get a visit from the Church, but instead of evangelizing it’s stone-cold cult murder. Exciting!”

Basira didn’t even bother to nod. Her dark brows were low over darker eyes. 

Action. That always seemed to help her.

“Alright, they might be coming this way at some point. What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know. I don’t _know!”_ Basira dropped her hand to slam it flat on the table. “I don’t _know_ what the plan is, I don’t _know_ what the hell I do about Jon sucking trauma out of someone’s brain, I don’t _know_ what’ll help Daisy, I _don’t know_ how to explain why I did what I did to Melanie, _I don’t know!”_ Her eyes were fiery in a way Tim had never seen. “I don’t know why _everyone_ thinks I’m the only one who can keep this place from burning down to the g-ddamn ground, except for that _no one else_ seems like they’re _trying_ to keep everything from falling apart! I don’t—”

“Hey, hey hey,” Tim said over her with his hands up to grab her attention. “I’m sorry, I didn’t phrase that right.”

There was still fire, but Basira’s eyes locked intently on him. Studied him. 

“Let’s talk about what we can do, yeah? You don’t need to have some picturesque plan off the top of your head; you just got back from what sounds like a hell of a trip.” He’d have to ask later what she meant about Jon — seemed like a real can of worms, but asking now would only stress her out all over again. “We’ll talk about some options, that way we can refine ‘em down more after sleeping on it, but if the Church comes soon we’ll still have something to work with. Sound good?”

Eyes closed, she let out a long, steadying breath, then nodded. 

“Stockpile torches would be step one, right?”

Basira nodded again. “That’s the only reason we could take down Rayner. They’re not as bright in the total Dark, and the batteries don’t last as long.”

“So we can get some of those big industrial ones they use on construction sites and all that.” With some light, careful humor, Tim added, “Lukas can foot the bill.”

“No argument here,” Basira agreed. “There’s enough storage closets on each floor that we can make sure every department can get to some quickly. I’ll make the rounds once we have it set up to let people know.”

“I’ll help, if you want. Do you think people would listen more if it comes from regular-looking Tim or spooky ghost Tim?”

That damn near got a smile. Not quite, but Tim caught a flicker. “As long as your limbs are all there and your spooky ghost blood is in your spooky ghost body, doubt it matters.”

He knew better than to bust out his injuries. Or, not his. Jon’s. Jon’s injuries. The ones he should have gotten as Tim Witnessed his death. The ones he should have gotten as Basira did her own shrapnel-slashed end. Basira, whose death he also would have Witnessed.

G-d, this was weird.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Tim said with a wave of his hand, hoping that Basira didn’t notice whatever strange expression he was sure he must have. 

A small bit of luck meant Basira was far too busy staring at the book on her desk to notice his expressions, strange or otherwise. She looked deep in thought.

He gave her another moment before leaning a bit to catch her eye. “Basira?”

She didn’t startle, only locked her eyes on him again with that same intensity she had before. The way her eyes narrowed in clear deliberation made Tim’s brow furrow. 

“What’re you thinking?”

“Can I ask a favor?”

“You’re lovely, Basira, but I don’t sleep with cowor—”

Before he could finish, she grabbed the nearest pencil and threw it at him. He did her the courtesy of manifesting enough that it could bounce of his chest, a slight grin on his face the whole while. She shot him with a dry glare, but by now knew him well enough to recognize it as a joke.

Well, a joke _and_ a complete lie. He wasn’t sure if Oliver counted as a coworker, but Sasha definitely did way back when. 

“Can I ask a favor that has nothing to do with _any_ of that?” When Tim gestured for her to continue as he set the pencil back on her desk, she sat up further in her chair. “Melanie’s the only reason we made it through the Flesh attack, and she’s not tied to the Slaughter anymore. Daisy— Daisy won’t Hunt. Jon’s a magical librarian.”

Tim snorted at that. “He could read some boring statements at them.”

“I don’t know what the hell it was he did to that delivery guy, but it took a lot out of him, and I don’t think him leaning into _anything_ from the Eye is a good idea.” Basira’s lip curled a bit, likely thinking of whatever happened on their trip north that she’d alluded to earlier. 

“Yeah, he mentioned all that to me. Probably best to not rely on it.” 

“Right. Too specialized, too singular. If a whole group attacks, I don’t know how much he’ll be able to do.” Her voice went hard. “And I don’t think I would let him even if he could.”

“So what’re you thinking?” Tim asked with a tilt of his head. 

Basira gave him a long look. “Daisy and I are firearm trained, but there’s some things that shooting won’t kill. I’m not even sure Daisy would be willing to shoot if it came down to it. The way I see it, you might have some more offensive abilities in whatever the End gives you. Things that’d work better than a bullet.”

“Wait, me?” Tim drew back a bit. “I mean, I just… walk around, watch things, all that. I don’t think bleeding on people will get me too far.”

“And I didn’t think the Eye would give anything offensive to Jon, but he’s pulled some things out of nowhere.” 

“Basira, I…” 

“If you can’t do it, tell me now.” Steady as ever, but Tim could tell under all her solid exterior there was desperation. She wouldn’t ask this of him if she had any other options. Right now, she was defending the Institute and everyone in it alone. No protection through Melanie’s blade and fury. No defense through Daisy’s teeth and endurance. 

One woman armed with clear eyes and a pistol. That was all. 

How Basira still stood under the tremendous pressure on her shoulders, Tim couldn’t fathom.

“I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll try, yeah?” He made a point to look her square on, let her see everything in him if it brought her some comfort. “Something attacks, I’m with you. I swear.” 

There was a long moment of quiet as she studied him. She must have detected the truth in his words, as it was only another beat before she nodded firmly and said, “Good.” Wasting no words, as usual.

That out of the way, she leaned back in her chair, shoulders dragging down. The circles under her eyes made her face look hollow. 

Elbows resting on his knees, Tim stared at his own laced hands. Orange nail polish unchipped, gold band on his left middle finger clean and bright. The things he did as an avatar left no physical traces outside the wounds.

If he killed something — some _one_ — would he carry those wounds as well? Would that count as a Witnessed death, or simply one more in a long line of lives pulled from bodies? 

The question went both ways. If he _didn’t_ fight back and let something attacking the Institute kill one of the people inside, would he carry those? Would they be Witnessed? 

It didn’t matter right now. Not when Basira still looked so worn thin, not when he was here and could maybe, maybe help.

The book on her desk, the one she’d been staring at minutes ago: _the Princess Bride._ A few chapters past what she’d read after all _that._ He didn’t need that grounding frequently, no, but it helped. Listening to her read with his eyes closed was as close as he got to sleep these days. 

If he wasn’t mistaken, she always looked a little more relaxed after. The chance to lose herself in a book with the added bonus of an immediate, visible fix for something in front of her.

Solution X to Problem Y.

He nudged the book her way. “I think we’re close to the whole Cliffs of Insanity scene, if you’re up to it. I could use the break, yeah?” In her raised brow he could tell she saw right through him, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she thumbed through the pages to the proper chapter. 

After only a couple paragraphs, some of the tension in her jaw faded — not completely, but enough that Tim could lean back in his chair and close his eyes, hands folded over his stomach.

The night before, in bed with Oliver’s hands holding his face and lips pressed to his forehead, murmuring, “It’s alright, it’s alright,” as Tim shook with memory and death and helpless fear, he couldn’t see anything past the predetermined road of his eternity. There were no crossroads on something written into the law of reality. Cogs in machines couldn’t choose which way to turn.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Basira in front of the Institute against whatever might come for them or relaxed in her office as her voice painted vivid pictures of the two parties scaling the cliffs, it was the same — it was a _choice._ He knew that as well as he did his own unbeating heart.

He didn’t know how, not then, not there, but he knew that two people he cared for should be dead. They lived on. 

Here, Basira read without so much as a scar on her shoulder or crick in her neck. 

Here, somewhere, Jon held his cane firmly in a hand still there to use, and talked to Daisy with chest scarred and lungs smoke-scorched but altogether _whole._

Each choice he claimed felt like one more middle finger to the End. Each was one more place he could stand to say:

_I’m not your Witness. I’m Tim Stoker, and when I go down, I go down swinging._

**Author's Note:**

> do you guys know how long i've been waiting to drop tim's title because i don't think you do. it's been so long and i am so tired 
> 
> coming soon: tim, both in life and undeath, seeks somewhere he belongs
> 
> _[edit 5/21/2020 to change oliver's title to his revealed canonical one!]_


End file.
